Sigil of the Wolf - 14. Chapter 14

Ararat - Zemûn home world

Darien piloted R-403 down towards the spaceport. Squadron Leader Katz was flying second chair; his job was to take the Raptor back to the Excalibur, laying hidden on the very edge of the system out of the Zemûn scanning range, as quickly as possible.

Masconi had objected loudly to Darien's plan, insisting that she at least be allowed to fly the Raptor. Darien had politely pointed out that the only thing worse than a human being discovered on the Zemûn home world would be a member of House Kardiac.

As lightning flared in the distance, Darien reached up and turned the red cockpit lights up to their full intensity, tightening his seat belts on instinct as the turbulence began to grip the light Amsus war machine. His engines hummed faithfully in the background as the rain began dropping against the canopy like thunderous cannon rounds. It seemed somehow fitting that the first Imperial return to that world was greeted in such a fashion.

Darien banked the ship, breaking free of the storm. He was glad for the better weather, but visibility remained poor at the surface. His eyes scanned the instrument panel as he began his approach.

"Approach brief: marker beacons are on, mag compass and heading indicator are set. Approach plate is," Darien looked over at it, "ILS Runway 7 Right, Ararat. Identify NAV aid," he reached out to the IDENT button on his radio stack and listened for the three letter Morse Code identifier - cross-referencing it with the code box on his approach plate - that told him he had the proper frequency. He dialled in. "Course is 074, entry is vectored, altitude is 1650 feet until glide slope then down to Decision Height of 225 feet. Time for missed approach is a minute and six seconds at 150 knots. MAP is at 225 feet."

"Romeo-Four-Zero-Three, Ararat approach. Descend and maintain six thousand, turn right heading zero-one-five, vectors for the ILS Runway 7 Right at Ararat spaceport. Ararat spaceport ATIS Information Charlie is current. Reporting visibility three quarters of a mile with rain, ceiling three hundred over cast," the controller called.

"Zero-one-five and six thousand for Four-Zero-Three." Darien returned through the radio, glancing at Katz who was watching him nervously.

"You're going to be okay, right sir?" The young man asked worriedly as the Raptor descended below the cloud cover over what was once a city, now just a cluster of lights amidst so many empty buildings.

"I'll be all right," Darien nodded, "Pre-landing checklist. Fuel to both, gear is stand-by, fuel pumps are on. Landing light is on. Boards checked. Checklist complete except for boards, flaps, spoilers, slats, and gears."

"I could come with you," Katz offered.

"And who would fly my ship back to the Excalibur?" Darien asked, patting R-403's instrument panel.

"Four-Zero-Three descend and maintain two thousand." The Amsus controller operating out of the Ararat tower called back.

"Four-Zero-Three leaving six for two," Darien replied, pulling more power off and descending down to two thousand feet, the Raptor slipping through the cloud tops.

Darien glanced again at the young officer, smiling as he reached out and batted the brim of the red ball cap Katz was wearing. "You sure Ashley isn't missing that?" He asked, flashing a knowing grin.

Katz grinned. "You take it where you can find it," he replied truthfully, "Life's too short to give a shit."

Darien nodded, realizing how much like old men they sounded, both far too young to have seen the kind of things they had seen, or to have done the kind of things they had done.

Their conversation, as he continued his landing procedures, really drove home the point of how his crew viewed him, like an elder brother, or a father. Unlike Iver's rigid discipline, Excalibur was a family and in some ways it worked better in that dynamic. He trusted his crew to do what they had to because they respected him, not because they were afraid of what would happen if they didn't.

The Raptor bumped the runway, the wheels hitting home as the ground began to pull the heavy aircraft, its turbine engines quickly powering up to add breaking power as the craft shivered and slowed to a crawl, down at last on a world that still bore the scars of true evil.

* * *

Darien slipped the bulky robe up and over his clothes. He made sure not to wear anything with uniform markings, keeping it a simple black slacks and white shirt with his waistcoat thrown on underneath. Robes of the style he now wore were popular on the Zemûn home world, a place of religious teachings and devout worshippers. So long as he kept his hood up and his head bowed, he should pass as just another pilgrim or holy man there to learn the price of faith.

"Highlord?" Nazzien held up Darien's PKD belt, extending it across to him.

Darien glanced up and shook his head. "I'd never get through Zemûn security carrying that."

The Orion nodded and wrapped the belt around the holster, slipping it into his baggage, not bothering to remove the vicious sliver gun he always seemed to have with him. Orions were always armed, and many cultures ignored that. Trade with the Orions was, at times, the only income many colonies and worlds could count on, and angering the Orions was often the last thing they could risk.

Doctor Kyr, dressed as if he were ready to go hiking, backpack riding high on his back and a bright look in his eyes, stood ready by the rear ramp. He adjusted the trilby hat he was wearing, so typical of the Victorian era fashion favoured by his people; he had his passport tucked into his top pocket, sticking out just enough to be visible.

"Remember," Darien warned as he flipped the hood up over his head, "We're not trying to enter Ararat so we shouldn't be hassled for our identification, we just have to wait..." He checked his watch, "Four hours until the Tradeliner arrives, then we board it as quickly as we can."

Nazzien nodded, shouldering his pack as he activated the ramp controls, the ramp sliding to the ground, opening on the windswept rainy day. The three companions made their way down to the apron of the Ararat starport.

Darien huddled deeper into his robes folding his hands into the sleeves, watching the small, wheeled vehicle bounce its way towards them, ready to ferry the passengers to the main terminal, out of the storm.

"I want to go back to the tropical-island world," Kyr yelled above the wind, "Least that was sunny."

The Zemûn driving the wheeled vehicle was well-adapted to the wet climate. A light down of feathers covered his skin, much like a penguin's feathers, slick and tight to his rounded form. He (the males of the species were readily identified by the bright yellow patch of tentacles beneath their gullet) turned the wheeled vehicle vaguely resembling a motorized rickshaw and gestured for them to climb aboard, whisking them away from the relative safety of the Raptor, which was already powering up and taxing back towards the runway for take-off.

The motorized rickshaw climbed a separate ramp, pulling up alongside a set of modern terminal doors, the driver bobbing his head and driving off as soon as they dismounted. The three were left to enter the facility through the heavy security.

Darien's first thought was of the sheer number of troops everywhere. Zemûn and Amsus alike, each standing guard or monitoring the crowds of people that were entering through the various different arrival gates and moving about their business.

The red stone building had been constructed from the local building materials, a hard-packed clay that had made Ararat famous before the fall of the Empire. Highly prized for its aesthetic beauty, it had been one of the Zemûn's principal exports.

"Head down," Nazzien hissed, keeping close beside the Highlord, his hand resting on his pistol belt. He was ready to drop and draw in a moment's notice, but they were woefully under-equipped for a firefight with that many heavily armed troops.

A squad of Amsus troopers moved through the crowd, pausing to relieve another squad standing guard over the door that led to customs and immigration. Entrance to the world was tightly controlled. The companions carefully kept as much distance as they could between themselves and those doors, entering the interstellar area of the starport.

"This is why Denver's important," Nazzien nudged Darien, and indicated to one of the large and gaudy stores off to one side. The department store seemed to have a little of everything, bright signs advertising everything a traveller could require from sleep aids through to matching luggage. Helpful Zemûn females were standing in front of the store, handing out discount coupons to entice passers-by inside.

"Looks like a sound investment," Kyr remarked, noting that no one was actually going in to the store. Not surprising, considering that the managing director was a human being and the bulk of the passers-by were Zemûn.

"It's all about positioning and marketing," Nazzien replied defensively, following Darien as he climbed a set of escalators to the upper floor, making for the check-in desk where they could collect their tickets for the Tradeliner.

With the scheduled arrival of an Orion Tradeliner, the starport was especially busy; businessmen as well as tourists were eager to board the luxurious craft to see what goods and trade it brought with it from the far reaches of space...

"Halt!" the thickly accented voice demanded, as the trio drew to a stop. Darien felt that cold hard knot rising in his stomach as he turned.

The Zemûn appeared not to pay attention to the 'priest' as he focused his full attention on Kyr, the muzzle of his Zemûn-styled submachine gun never wavering, trained on the doctor.

Kyr seemed unfazed by the weapon pointing at him. He fixed a smile on his face as he raised his hands. "Problem, officer?" he inquired jovially.

"There're laws against you here..." The Zemûn stepped forward menacingly.

"If you mean humans, I completely understand," Kyr replied, "I, however, am Kaynin, I have papers..." he nodded, still smiling, down to his breast pocket.

Nazzien pressed a hand against Darien, pushing him back towards the crowd that was gathering around Kyr. Darien inclined his head and did as he was told. The last thing they needed was for the Zemûn to notice an actual human.

The Zemûn seemed uninterested in Kyr's papers, gesturing with his weapon for the doctor to accompany him towards immigration. There were a number of loud hisses from the crowd, a few of them clicking and squeaking and gesturing violently.

Nazzien threw a glance towards Darien, squaring his jaw and stepping in front of the Zemûn guard, holding up his travel papers and resting his hand on the butt of his pistol, "Excuse me, that," he nodded to Kyr, "Belongs to me."

The rush of guards parting the crowd to surround the Orion, silver hooked automatics up and trained on him made even the formidable Orion warrior balk at the prospect of trying to fight them. In his rush to help the doctor he found himself in a similar predicament as the self-important Zemûn gestured for him to accompany them as well.

Darien uttered a curse as he watched his companions vanish through the heavily-guarded security doors and into Zemûn territory, leaving him trapped and unarmed.

With Nazzien carrying his PKD, Darien was unarmed, and his hand coiled around his TAC-link. Katz would still be in range, but if he called the Raptor back, there would be no way of explaining it to Zemûn control. He wouldn't make it to the Raptor, let alone be able to depart on it.

He turned the small device over in his hands, hidden by a fold in his robes as he contemplated what he could do.

* * *

He had been waiting for easily an hour, watching the doors, waiting for some sign that his crewmembers were all right, the time trickling away as he lurked resting on the upper gallery-rail away from the main stream of people zigzagging too and fro from arrival and departure gates. The spaceport was busy, mainly as a stop-over point for a broad variety of alien races, providing good connections to a couple of Orion cruise and Tradeliner routes.

The call had been quick, Nazzien finding a moment to activate his TAC-link and report that they had been arrested. No clear reason having been given; they had been disarmed and loaded upon a truck bound for the city. He had shut the TAC-link down before the signal could be traced and Darien had offered a slight curse.

Inevitably, the moment he was unarmed on a planet, everything went to hell in a hand basket. He was stuck, no identity papers to get him into Ararat, and even if he could get out of the starport he'd be a lone human on a world looking for any excuse to lynch human beings. Not to mention the roving Amsus patrols that would love nothing better than to get their hands on an Imperial Highlord.

If he had any intelligence, he would have cut his losses, waited for the Tradeliner and gotten the hell off of that world. But Nazzien and Kyr were more than crewmates, they were his friends, and he'd lost enough friends lately.

He waited for his opportunity, smiling that whatever gods were out there had decided to shine on him. Walking purposefully down a flight of stairs, slipping his hands into the sleeves of his robe, he fell in behind a collection of Zemûn monks making a steady procession towards the doors to immigration. He steadied his nerves keeping his head down as Nazzien had instructed, keeping in perfect step with his 'brother monks', hoping to god that he was right.

He hefted the TAC-link again, clicking it on as he passed an older female Zemûn with a large set of bags, pausing long enough to drop the device inside as he hurried to keep up with the rest of his flock.

The Zemûn customs guards parted for the collection of holy men, sparing only a moment's glance at the leader's papers, waving them through, as a shrill whistle went off. Zemûn guards rushed in from all sides as they descended on the very confused old woman, Darien smiling tightly to himself as he passed through the security gates, past the distracted guard who was raising himself onto the tip-toes of his webbed feet to get a better view of what was happening, his gullet tentacles waving excitedly, not bothering to pay attention to just another monk in a line of them.

Once through and into the outer spaceport he was able to separate from the monks, taking a sharp right turn and walking past yet more troopers and guards, leaving through the front doors and out into the damp sunless afternoon on the cold grey world.

He was at first assailed by the smell; the thick humidity in the air, combined with the garbage that littered the streets, left the city with a rank smell that permeated everything. It was almost sickeningly strong, and Darien fought the urge to be sick as his stomach rebelled against the odour.

He kept his robes pulled tight about him as he set off towards the brightest lights in the city. Logically, if he were a government seeking to imprison off-worlders he would make sure the security office was in a section of the city that maintained continuous power.

It astounded him; he'd been to backwater worlds before where power generators could only be maintained for short periods of time. The street lamps - those that actually still had bulbs - flickered and flared as he marvelled at the city around him.

The ramshackle buildings were nothing like the modern spaceport, the red clay bricks were held together by thin strips of plastic weaved together like straws trying to support the weight of the structure. He stared a moment at the collection of figures huddled out of the spattering rain inside the tiny rooms, entire Zemûn families clustered together, roosting amidst the decay.

He stepped aside as more motorized rickshaws flew past him, carrying impatient Zemûn to their destinations, honking horns and weaving through pedestrian traffic as they went. Ararat was a busy place, and even though he could see numerous people, he still saw the burned and blackened buildings that no one had bothered to tear down, stark wounds to remind the shattered people of what had been done to them.

Darien tried not to focus upon it, walking deeper into the city, trying not to stare too long at the suffering about him. There were military everywhere out in the city, guards on street corners propped upright sleeping where they stood, or keeping suspicious eyes on the people moving past them, uniforms clean and pressed and gold shining proudly. For a world so racked with poverty there seemed to be more than enough money to support the military.

It was a harsh reminder of what Iver had planned for the Empire, building a military upon the backs of the poor working class.

He crossed a street, trying to get his bearings. The twilight was beginning to set in, and it made his job easier, heading for the brightest lights. However, in the maze of city streets and shelled buildings, he could easily become turned around, and becoming lost in Ararat was not a prospect that he relished. He was largely ignored for his robes, but that would only last so long, and if they missed the Tradeliner, they ran the risk of being stranded.

He contemplated flagging down one of the rickshaws, but he was carrying no local currency, and that could plunge him into even more trouble if he wasn't careful. He turned and noticed the young Zemûn chicks were following him; the juveniles hadn't shed their thick grey downy feathers, and waddled on stumpy legs lacking any of the grace the adults gained when their rear legs grew in.

One of them extended its hands and clicked.

Darien felt his chest tighten; he didn't speak Zemûn, and if he didn't think quickly he was going to find himself in a dilemma. He swallowed and kept walking, stepping around a couple of the chicks extending their hands in front of him, repeating the same clicking phrase.

They weren't leaving him alone, and he tried to think. He was dressed like a priest and they were holding their hands out, either they wanted a blessing (which he had no idea how to deliver) or they wanted food (which he didn't have). There were adults watching him now from the shadows of the ramshackle buildings, trying to figure out the priest's odd behaviour, the group of chicks clicking and waddling behind him trying to keep up.

He was walking along what had once been a boulevard, the asphalt torn up long ago, and the rough uneven ground was difficult for him to keep his balance on. His boots slipped a little on the uneven rocks. A Zemûn guard on the corner stood to see what all the fuss was about, heading up the road towards him.

The hulking shape emerged from the side ally with a low grumbling roar; larger than the small Zemûn, it towered over them, bearing huge carnivorous teeth as it snarled, sending chicks scattering as the large Taïrian began to chuckle.

It took a moment for Darien to register that he was not about to be consumed by the large alien, his head clutching his heart as he breathed heavily, sparing a glance down towards the guard who had his weapon up and was advancing towards the pair.

The Taïrian rounded on the guard, setting his hands on his hips as he snarled again.

"And what do you want?" he grumbled loudly.

The guard hesitated, staring at the five-hundred-pound creature that seemed annoyed at the interference. The Zemûn lifted his weapon and backed towards his post, uttering an apology for disturbing them.

"Th-thank you, I think," Darien murmured.

"Think nothing of it, Taine," the great creature murmured, "We must get you off of the streets before you attract more attention."

Darien nodded, a flood of questions on his mind as he followed the Taïrian back down a series of side streets, weaving through the city's quieter sections till they slipped through a barricade and inside what had once been a shop.

"How did you know..." Darien began catching his breath and pulling his hood back from his head.

The Taïrian gwuffed as it grinned. "I tracked your scent for a block and a half, we Taïrians have long memories and I was on Taïr when you gave us our freedom."

He patted the side of his muzzle knowingly. "Ararat is not a safe place for a little one such as you..."

"I know," Darien agreed with a half-hearted smile as he sat back on a pile of up-turned crates, "two of my crew were apprehended at the spaceport and taken into the city, I have to get them back."

"Alone and unarmed?" His new Taïrian friend inquired, folding his arms, "Captain Shale would be displeased if anything were to happen to the Liberator of Taïr."

"The Liberator of Taïr would be displeased if something happened to the Liberator of Taïr," Darien remarked, shaking his head. The Taïrian had a point; what he was trying to do was insane, with no knowledge of the culture, and no understanding of the language, what had he hoped to accomplish? He was very lucky not to have been arrested. But what choice did he have? If he didn't do something then he risked leaving two of his crewmen to languish in a Zemûn prison.

"I am Garam," the creature said, extending his beefy paw, and Darien shook it, realizing yet again how unique Shale was among his kind. Darien had just assumed that silent stoicism was a part of the Taïrian species. In a way it reminded him how much he missed his burly friend. However, at that moment, he was glad for all the friends he could get, new or old.

* * *

The Shifting Sands, pride and joy of the Denver conglomerate and the newest Tradeliner in the Orion space fleet slipped easily, despite its bulk, through the clouds of Ararat. The elegant and sleek silver hull was a departure from the traditional Orion naval architecture; built for speedy transits from system to system, she lacked the massive wagon train of cargo modules. She was designed as a cruise ship first, liner second.

Enarbrem Sul'Rikard stood on the observation deck sipping champagne, staring down over the shattered world towards which they were descending. Somewhere beneath him, on a world tortured by his Empire, was Taine.

There was a certain poetic irony in the hero of the Empire hiding amidst said Empire's most fervent enemies: hiding in the ruins of a once proud people too foolish to give up their lacklustre faith for a god they could actually believe in.

That pride had been their downfall, Rikard smiled into his glass; there was no pity in his mind for a species that refused to evolve, refused to adapt and survive. The current predictions were that the Zemûn people would be totally extinct in a couple of generations, their birth rates far below their mortality rates. A shame, they'd had such potential.

He stepped back from the rail, turning back to his guests, plastering the typical Denver grin on his face, pushing his hair back as he circled through the crowd making his way to the guest of honour, the Gorean ambassador, Xanatos, eating his way through a platter specially prepared for his dietary needs.

"All is well, I trust?" Denver asked with a broad smile, contemplating the cranial plates that covered the creature's hooded reptilian head.

The Gorean ambassador gestured to the platter and slurped. "Delicious, Mister Denver, I must thank your chef for the most excellent meal, a local delicacy I take it?" The Gorean held up the webbed foot and cracked it to get at the juicy meat inside. The burnished brass scales around his throat rippled as he sucked the meat down.

"A rare treat these days I am afraid," Rikard smiled chillingly, "We will be stopping for a few hours on Ararat, a minor planet, barely worth the effort but for some wonderful terracotta they produce. If you wanted, I could arrange a tour."

"There is no need," the ambassador shook his head, "I think I'll prefer to remain aboard the liner and enjoy your fine hospitality."

"Excellent," Rikard murmured with a broad smile, "by all means, enjoy."